


i must confess (i'm in love with my own sins)

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: America's Suitehearts AU, M/M, first fic in this fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 22:35:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16376291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Based off a weird dream I had.





	i must confess (i'm in love with my own sins)

**Author's Note:**

> editing this in the morning!

Once upon a time, there was a city.

This city was cruel and corrupt, a hell for the virtuous and a haven for the vile. This city was a cesspool of horror, of drugs and of danger, of depravity of the worst sort.

This marvelous city was Chicago. This beauty of a kingdom, this heaven (or maybe it was hell; I never could quite keep that straight) was Chicago. This Lake Effect City, this City in a Garden, whatever you want to call it, was the bridge between madness and sanity, a place where you could hover just in between the two.

This was a place where sanity was doing the same thing over and over again to drive the madness away.

Marvelous, marvelous Chicago. How I wonder at your glory. All used needles and white lines, all the wicked and the broken scraping away at their flesh to pry the sunshine out of their veins. Chicago, I owe you everything.

.

.

.

Oh, I’m sorry. Where was I, again? I must’ve forgotten. I should probably start from the beginning. When’s the beginning, come to think of it? Well, it’s very hard to say. The beginning happened so long ago, and the sands of time wear down on us all. Speaking of which, I’m afraid my time is running out. I suppose I should get to the story, then. Once upon a time….

****

Pete Wentz didn’t walk the streets of Chicago so much as storm through them. Like a storm, everyone knew to stay out of his way or get caught in his winds, vicious and unrelenting.

Today was no different.

The Klonopin King trudged through Chicago’s sidewalks with the force of a hurricane, blowing everything in his path to bits. The black-and-white snarl painted onto his features and his black-lined eyes only added to his intimidating aura as he smirked cockily at the passerby.

How does he know none of them will attack him? He is one of the city’s foremost criminals, and his sins weigh heavy on the city’s back. Or, more likely, they'll take him on for the reward.

The answer: he sees their eyes. He knows what they’re telling him. Some are stars, shining bright with fear. Others are just black holes, little pits of dull anger or grief.

He likes those eyes better.

He knows he did that to them, knows one of the people they love maybe OD’d on his klonos, or, if they’d somehow annoyed him, ended up six foot underground. He loves the way they glare, furious but unable to do anything. They know he sees their eyes, and they fear him for it. If the eyes are the mirror to a person’s soul, then he knows just how to tweak their reflections, not too much, just enough to push them a little over the edge. Enough to make them a little like him, so he sees a piece of himself everywhere he goes.

It’s fitting, really. He practically owns this city (well, he would if Dr. Benzedrine’s boys backed the fuck down) and he wants to make sure these people know it. He rounds the corner. _“Oh. Awesome.”_ He thinks. Joe Trohman’s mane of curly hair is unmistakable, even from a distance. “Hey, Crabby!” Joe whips around, then groans. “Wentz, when I agreed to take Horseshoe Crab as my codename…”

The mention of Pete’s name sends the surrounding passerby into palpitations, a rapid crescendo of thumpthumpthumps that are music to Pete’s ears. His face stretches into a rictus grin, a stark contrast to the snarl eternally present on his otherwise handsome features. “What’s the point of these names when everybody knows who we are?” Joe grumbles. Each breath releases a poof of multi-colored smoke, a sign of his annoyance.

Pete grins even more. “To inspire fear, Joey boy.” Joe glared exasperatedly at Pete before sighing. “That’s not why I came here today, Wentz.”

“Then why?” Pete enquired.

Joe lowered his voice. “We got trouble.”

Pete sighed. Just when his day was going so well. “One of Benzie’s boys?”

Joe smiled as he looked straight into Pete’s eyes. “You guessed it, Sandman.” Joe exhales the smoke curling from his mouth.

 _“Well. Dammit.”_ Pete thinks.

“Which one?” He asks.

Joe shrugs. “The green one. Donatello, I think?”

Pete chuckles. “Donnie?”

“Whatever, Sandman.”

 

***********

“Donnie, old chap, you’ve really done it this time!” Patrick’s porcelain painted face glows (literally and figuratively) underneath the blacklights. Why the crime boss keeps the lights there, Andy has no idea.

His yellow suit glows neon-bright under the odd lights as he does an odd dance across the room. “Why, the delayed gas bombs were a stroke of genius! I couldn’t have come up with a better plan myself. Nice work on Englewood, _mon_ ami.” The Benzedrine Baron/Dr. Benzedrine/Patrick (Andy still isn’t sure what to call him, even after six months of working directly with him) says all this with a shit-eating grin on his face, one Andy is almost itching to slap off. Andy fidgets; the stupid green suit his boss makes him wear is one of the most uncomfortable, if not the most, garments any human could ever devise. Jesus, it’s like some mad tailor decided to combine an iron maiden with evening attire and call it a day. Perhaps Patrick senses this, because his smile has grown a little larger.

“Now, I’ve got a new assignment for you.” Patrick seems to ruffle his feathers, like a sunshine yellow peacock about to feast. His ever-pompous manner only adds to the effect. Throw in his odd, old-timey accent, and you’ve got yourself a very….odd person, to say the least. He hands the folder to Andy, a horrible beaming smile on his repugnant features. “You won’t fail me, will you?” Andy nods, screaming internally. He knows, now, why Patrick is taking such joy in giving him this mission. With trembling hands, he reads the name on the cover, half-convinced this is all a mad dream.

Mr. Sandman

Real name: Unknown

Age: Unknown

Location: Unknown

Mission: Eliminate at all costs within five days.

“Do you understand, Andy? He does have to pay for the MANIA incident, after all.” Patrick’s smile has grown to match the painted one on his face, creating a ghoulish effect. Andy murmurs “yes” under his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. “Good.” Patrick responds. As Andy shuts the door behind him, he slumps unto the floor, his face in his hands. Here’s why: It is fact in Chicago that the Sandman has never been caught. No one knows why or how he has managed to become so elusive. He just is. It is fact that no one has survived looking for the Sandman. No one has any idea what happens to them. It just is.

If Patrick’s sending him on this mission, then he’s gotten bored with Andy.

And if there’s one thing Andy’s learned about being Patrick’s right hand after being in this gang for so many years, it’s one thing: A boring Catcher is a dead one.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, just so y'all know:
> 
> Donnie the Catcher is a title passed down from right-hand man to right-hand man. Patrick tends to go through them quickly.


End file.
